Oak Tree
by Nitesh
Summary: A shrouded figure stands over another's grave at the end of the War...


Well... this is an odd little short story.  It's set in the future, and its about someone visiting another's final resting place.  Who died?  Who's alive?  Although it seems easy to answer, you'll soon see it's not...

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Oak Tree

Earth was a cold, dim place.  All who lived upon it knew that.  The once green fields were war torn, the once salty oceans were polluted and gray.  The sky itself, long ago blue speckled with the fluffy white, hopeful clouds was now altered to an odd golden color.  But this gold was not majestic, but cold and dead.

There was an old street under this fallen sky.  The pavement was cracked and large chucks of it were missing entirely.  Parts of it were even black from fire.  It seemed to waver tiredly to those who squinted down the road from afar.

But this street was special.

Down the road, at the very end, was a house.  It was an odd looking house.  Some would even call it disfigured.  It was strangely slanted and thin, with a large window in front.  A doorway used to rest in the gaping face of the house, but a large hole, as if a yawning mouth, was there instead.  All over the front yard were black scorch marks, and many were amazed that the house hadn't gone up in flames, because obviously once there had been a danger of that. 

But the house and the yard were still there, and even a lawn gnome had managed to stay intact, although the paint was peeling off it.  But that wasn't why the house was special.

What was special was the tree.

A large oak tree stood to the right of the crooked path leading up to the front steps.  Some came from far distances just to see this tree, as now on Earth there were not many left, all the others being burned.  But still, for one- just one- that was not why that tall, beautiful tree was special.

It was what was buried at the base of the tree.  It was the crudely cut white stone that lay against the strong trunk.

There was a disturbance on the empty, abandoned street.  A crunch of gravel beneath feet, a dark figure in the sorrowful wind that had not been there before.

The figure moved down the street with a catlike grace, trying not to disturb this lonely land.  Where it used to be loud, full with cars breaking, children laughing, and birds singing in the breeze it is now dead silence, with only the wind to gently kiss the wreckage.  The dark figure respected that, and tried to leave the land in peace, walking softly through everything. 

The shadowed frame finally reached the odd house, and stopped.  The shape's head tilted back, and stared at the house, eyes slowly blankening thankfully. Hastening up the pathway, with a hint of old vigor but still very gingerly, the dim form ambled up the steps and stood there, looking into the black mouth of the house, as if lost in an old memory.  

The shape did not move further, however, because slowly but surely it retreated a few steps back.  The figure's head shook slowly, as if sadly.  Then to the tree.

The tree was the only thing that looked really alive here.  Even the form carefully stepping on, but not breaking, the dead grass didn't seem as real as the proud oak, with its sturdy branches and sensitively swaying leaves.

The figure stopped a third and final time in front of the white stone- the tombstone.  It stood there for a while, with its gaze lowered.  Then, slowly, the figure dropped what had been held in hand the whole time.

It was a seed.  A white seed that was soon lost in the grass.  It was the seed of a flower that properly grew on the graves of the honored dead.

And the broken figure honored this one who lay below the tree.

The shape seemed to be frozen for a while, not moving with one hand extended, as though half-expecting the death flower to sprout before its very eyes.

Then the shadow moved back, giving a quiet, dry cough.  "We both liked winning," the figure whispered to the gravestone.  "But this was... not how I expected to win.  I... I didn't _want_ to win like this.  And for that... I'm sorry."

The wind hissed, seemingly angry at this foreigner destroying the dreary street's silence. 

"I know," murmured the black shadow, only tinted with the gold of the sad sky.  "Don't think I don't know."  The figure's head ducked suddenly, and a sleeve came up to rub at the face, presumably at the dirt smudged under one eye.

"If I could come back and do it again different, don't think I wouldn't," said the dim, slightly stuck voice.  "Because I would.  I _never_ wanted things to get like this.  No matter _what_ you had done to tick me off."

Gradually, the frame raised a hand, and pressed two fingers to its forehead.  "Something I thought I'd never do," said the figure with the trace of a smile in its voice.  "I salute you."

The shadow finally, abruptly, broke away, and vanished down the street again.  The oak tree lost a single leaf in the wind, and it slowly blew away to follow.

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Interesting, eh?  Who do you think died?  Who was alive?  I'll already tell you this- its _not_ that obvious.  Think really hard, though.  I look forward to your guesses in your reviews... although I'll probably take the answer to my grave.

~ Dragon of the Rose


End file.
